


When You Know Something's Wrong

by mistyzeo



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Community: schmoop_bingo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-13
Updated: 2010-07-13
Packaged: 2017-10-12 02:56:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/120007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes gets it wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You Know Something's Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> for my [](http://community.livejournal.com/schmoop_bingo/profile)[**schmoop_bingo**](http://community.livejournal.com/schmoop_bingo/) [card](http://mistyzeo.livejournal.com/51192.html), prompt: illness - minor.

It was early evening when I returned to our flat at Baker Street, and the air was warm for late October. Holmes had declined my offer for a walk that evening, pleading a slight headache, and so I had gone out alone. My pace had been slow-- it always is when Holmes is not with me-- and I had spent a good hour and a half strolling in the park , watching the people go by: nannies with their little charges, couples walking dogs, vendors closing up shop. It had rained, briefly, but I had ducked under the awning of a fruit seller, and satisfied my light hunger with two fresh pears until the shower had ceased. Then I turned my steps homeward again, and was looking forward to a quiet evening spent by the fire, me at my writing, Holmes no doubt at his chemical experiments or his violin or his current cases.

I called a greeting to Mrs. Hudson as I entered, and Holmes was looking up expectantly from the evening paper when I opened the door to the flat. I hung up my hat and coat, tucked my cane in its usual spot in the umbrella stand, and crossed the room. He turned his face up towards mine as I came near, and I leaned in to kiss him, brief and firm, on the mouth.

"And how is St. James's this evening?" he asked as I straightened up again, and it made me stop and stare. He smiled a pleased little smile, glancing back down at the paper as if the deduction meant nothing at all.

"Holmes," I said, not wishing to offend him in my plain astonishment, "I was not in St. James's."

He blinked, and glanced up at me, features schooled. Nevertheless, I saw confusion in his eyes.

"I walked to Regent's Park and walked the Outer Circle," I went on, gently.

"But--" he said, and stopped. "But you smell like the chestnut roaster at the end of the Mall, and the mud on your shoes-- which I might add, you have tracked all across the carpet-- is the consistency.... Surely...."

I shook my head, frowning at him. "I'm afraid not, my dear. Holmes, are you feeling all right?"

He looked utterly mortified, and it shocked me to the core. I could not even imagine what he was thinking just then, beyond the complete horror of having gotten it wrong.

"I don't--" he said, and made a noise of annoyance. "I'm fine, Watson. Thank you."

I put my hand to his forehead nonetheless, and although he squirmed away from it like a petulant child, it was impossible to miss how warm he felt. I came around to the front of his chair and knelt awkwardly, cupping his face in my two hands and tilting it so I could see it better in the light. His cheeks were flushed and his pupils dilated, and the very fact that he submitted to my ministrations was a symptom in itself. When I let go he did not pull away, and I was allowed to palpate the underside of his jaw, where I felt the swollenness of his lymph glands. The pressure made him pull back then, and turn his head to cough explosively into his fist.

"You'd probably best get to bed," I said.

"I'm fine," he said again, now irritated, pushing my hands away and picking up the paper again. He shook it out with a deliberate snap, and his face was hidden from me. I used his knee for leverage to push myself up again, and couldn't help smiling at the scowl that marred his normally very handsome features.

"I'll ask Mrs. Hudson to bring up some soup," said I, turning away and heading for the door.

"I'm not hungry," he growled, barely audible.

Mrs. Hudson agreed and promised to bring me something more substantial too, and I returned to the sitting room to stand in front of the fire, my hands tucked in my pockets, waiting for the inevitable outburst from Holmes.

It came in due time. He lowered the paper, glared at me, and said, "Do me the honor of moving out of the way so that I do not freeze to death, Doctor."

"It isn't chilly in here in the slightest," I countered, but I obliged him anyway. It was just to prove a point. "You're ill, my dear."

Mrs. Hudson chose that moment to give a little rap on the door and then bustle in with her tray. She must have had supper waiting for my return, for it hadn't been more than ten minutes.

"There's soup for you, Mr. Holmes," she said, "good barley broth for that cold of yours. And potatoes and mutton for you, Doctor."

I thanked her and she left, and Holmes looked rather like he was trying to set me on fire with his eyes. Rather, he would have, if he didn't appear to be quite so dazed and tired.

I put my hand on his shoulder, and then on his head, feeling his temperature again surreptitiously with my thumb, but also taking a moment to push an errant lock of raven-black hair from his face, and he sighed.

"Eat," I commanded, "and then I'll take you to bed."

"You don't mean that in the amorous way I'd like you to," he said, but he allowed me to put the soup bowl into his hands, and he ate it quietly while I took my turn with the paper and ate my own supper.

I left the tray on the table by the door and went back to Holmes, who was pinching the bridge of his nose between his long fingers, his face scrunched up in discomfort. I brushed his hand away and smoothed both of my thumbs over his temples, and he looked up at me, eyes glassy. I'd expected him to fuss and make a scene, defying my medical degree and calling me any number of unflattering names, but instead he stood up and clutched my waistcoat in both hands, closing his eyes. He looked simply too tired to protest, and so I led him without a word to his bedroom.

I stripped him quickly and he indulged my army bedside manner, standing still with his eyes closed. He was shivering in the warm air of the room, and I pulled a nightshirt over his head and nudged him towards the bed as efficiently as I could.

His bedroom had been my bedroom for a long time now, and I divested myself of all my unnecessary layers as he rustled the sheets and grumbled about the blankets being too heavy or not warm enough. When I was down to my shirtsleeves and trousers, I started for the door, meaning to ask for a cup of tea for Holmes that might help him sleep.

His voice was plaintive and a little hoarse when he said, "Watson?"

"I will be right back," I said, wincing as he began to cough.

Mrs. Hudson had had the foresight, as she always did, to bring us tea already, and so my sojourn in the sitting room was brief. When I reentered Holmes's room with the tray, he was curled up on my side of the bed, the blankets pulled up around his shoulders and head. I set down the tray.

"Will you drink this?" I asked, and Holmes opened his eyes to glare a negative at me. "All right," I said, "suit yourself."

When I turned to take the tray away again, he reached a hand out of his nest of blankets and touched my wrist. His fingers were warm and his elegant hand was trembling ever so slightly.

"Come to bed now, Watson," he said.

I looked at my pocket watch and raised an eyebrow. "It's half past eight, Holmes. I have work I could finish tonight."

"No," he said.

"Holmes."

"I have two cases I ought to be solving," he said. "Although they are mundane, and the first is almost certainly the scullery maid pilfering silverware to pay her sister's abortionist, and the second--" He broke off to cough again, and I touched the back of my hand to his forehead once more. He quieted and looked up at me pleadingly, and I knew I would be turning in very shortly.

"All right," I said. "I shall come to bed. But only to keep an eye on you, Holmes. No nonsense. You need to sleep."

He furrowed his brow but he let go of my wrist and settled back into the blankets. I undressed and climbed in-- on his side of the bed-- and he immediately turned over and plastered himself along my side, his head tucked in against my chest and one long arm slung over my waist. I reached over him for the tea tray and offered a cup to him once more.

"Very well," he muttered, taking it and sipping it carefully. I held my breath in anticipation of his spilling it, but he drank it to the dregs very delicately, and handed the cup back. I put it down, and then I returned my attention to Holmes, running a hand through his hair.

Holmes is a very tactile person, and he will often find excuses to be touching me. Casual brushes in the sitting room, a hand on my arm when we walk together, or his shoulder against mine as he examines a crime scene. Now he tilted his head and pressed against my fingers, emulating a large, skinny cat, and I stroked his hair for some time, listening to him breathe. Then he pressed a kiss to my chest, warm and dry through my nightshirt, and I slid down to take him in my arms. He put his head on my shoulder and slung one long leg over my hip, pressing us together firmly.

"Holmes," I warned, "I said sleep."

"I am sleeping," he murmured, but I saw the corner of his mouth turn up as I reached to douse the lamp.


End file.
